Brind’Amour leaned back and considered that point. He recalled Luthien’s battle with the wizard Duke Morkney atop the tower of the Ministry. Morkney had called in a demon, Praehotec, and had given the beast his own body to use. In watching that battle, Brind’Amour had felt this very same sensation, only it was stronger here.
The old wizard understood, and he was filled with revulsion. With a low growl, he leaned forward, throwing all his concentration into the divining device and moving the eye along, following the beacon of Greensparrow’s energy. It sailed up the back stairs of the palace, to the second floor where there weren’t so many people, though even more one-eyed Praetorian Guards. It went down a maze of thickly carpeted hallways and came to a closed door.
Brind’Amour felt a jolt as the eye came up to that door. He tried to force it through, but found that a barrier was in place: the room had been magically sealed.
Greensparrow was behind that door. Brind’Amour knew it, but knew, too, that if he sent enough of his own energy to break through the blocking ward, the wizard-king would surely sense it.
Suddenly, the image in the crystal ball went dark as a huge cyclopian passed through the insubstantial eye. The door opened, and Brind’Amour was quick to urge his eye to follow the brute through.
The room beyond was relatively empty, considering the lavish furnishings throughout the rest of the palace. A single throne was centered in the square chamber, atop a circular dais, two steps up from the floor, and while the chair was ornate, decorated with glittering gemstones of green and red and violet, the floor was bare, except for narrow strips of red carpeting running from each of the room’s four doors to the dais.
Greensparrow—Brind’Amour knew it was the wretch, though he hadn’t seen the man in centuries, and had never known him well—lounged in the throne, fiddling with a huge ring upon the middle finger of his left hand. His hair was long and black and curly, and his face was painted and caked, though the makeup did little to hide the obvious toll his years of study and dealings with demons had taken. He appeared foppish, but Brind’Amour was not fooled. When Greensparrow looked out to regard the approaching cyclopian, his amber-colored eyes flickered with intelligence and intensity.
Brind’Amour wisely kept his magical eye near the cyclopian, hoping the strength of the imposing brute would somewhat mask the magical energy.
“What news, Belsen’Krieg?” the king asked, seeming bored.
Brind’Amour dared to move his magical eye out enough to get a good look at the brute. Belsen’Krieg was among the sturdiest and ugliest cyclopians the old wizard had ever seen. Rotting tusks stuck up over Belsen’Krieg’s upper lip, which had been split in half diagonally just below its wide, flattened nose. The brute’s eye was huge and bloodshot and a thick brow hung out over it like an awning on a storefront. Scars crossed both of Belsen’Krieg’s cheeks, and his neck, as thick as a child’s chest, seemed to be a yellow-green blob of scar tissue. His black-and-silver Praetorian Guard uniform, though, was perfectly neat, with gold brocade stitched on both shoulders and an assortment of medals and ribbons making his massive chest seem huger still.
“We have heard nothing from Montfort, my King,” the cyclopian snorted, his diction impressive for one of his race, but his articulation difficult to understand due to his almost constant snuffling.
“Morkney’s other cannot get back into the city,” Greensparrow said, more to himself than to Belsen’Krieg.
“Morkney’s other?” Brind’Amour whispered, thinking the choice of words odd. Was the wizard-king implying that all of his dukes had personal relationships with specific demons?
“So we must assume that the fool duke is dead,” Greensparrow went on.
“A minor inconvenience,” Belsen’Krieg offered.
“Is my ship ready to sail?” Greensparrow asked, and Brind’Amour held his breath, thinking that the king meant to go to Eriador personally to put down the revolt. If that happened, the old wizard knew, Luthien and his friends didn’t have a chance.
“The waters are clear of ice all the way to Chaumadore Port,” Belsen’Krieg replied immediately.
Gascony? Brind’Amour’s heart leaped with sudden hope. Greensparrow was going to Gascony!
“And the waters to the north?” the king asked, and again, Brind’Amour held his breath.
“Less so, by all reports,” the cyclopian answered.
“But you can get through,” Greensparrow replied, and the words were not a question but a command.
“Yes, my King.”
“Such silly business.” Greensparrow shook his head as though the whole affair was thoroughly distasteful. “We must show them their folly,” he went on, and rose from his chair, straightening his fine purple baldric and the thick and ruffled cloak. “Kill every man, woman, and child associated with the rebels. Make an example of them that Eriador will not forget for centuries to come.”
He had said it so casually, so ruthlessly.
“Yes, my King!” came the predictably eager reply. No cyclopian ever questioned an order to slaughter humans.
“And I warn you,” Greensparrow added, just before exiting the chamber through the back door, “if my vacation is interrupted, I will hold you personally responsible.”
“Yes, my King,” Belsen’Krieg responded, and the cyclopian didn’t seem to be worried. Indeed, to the fearful old wizard watching from more than five hundred miles away, the cyclopian seemed to be rejoicing.
Brind’Amour cut the connection and leaned back in his chair. The crystal ball went dark, and so did the room, but the wizard didn’t command his enchanted candelabra to light.
He sat in the dark, considering the connection his enemies held with demons, a relationship that was apparently still very strong. Brind’Amour thought of the fateful decision of the brotherhood those many, many years ago. The cathedrals had been built, the islands knew peace, and few cared much for the wizards, old men and women all. Their time had passed, the brotherhood had decided—even the great dragons had been put down, destroyed or imprisoned in deep caves, as Brind’Amour and his fellows had sealed up Balthazar. Brind’Amour had lost his staff in that encounter, and so convinced was he that his time was ended, that he did not even try to regain it.
All of the brotherhood had gone to sleep, some to eternal rest. Others, such as Brind’Amour, sent themselves into a magical stasis in private castles or caves. All of them . . . except for Greensparrow. He had been only a minor wizard in the old days, but one who had apparently found a way to extend the time of wizards.
Brind’Amour had chosen stasis over death because he believed that one day he might be useful to the world once more. Thus, when he had gone to his magical slumber, he had enacted spells of alarm that would call to him when the day was dark. And so he had awoken, just a few years before, to find Greensparrow seated as king of Avon and deep in unholy alliances with demons.
Brind’Amour sat in the dark considering his enemies, both human and fiend. He sat in the dark, wondering if he had been wise to set Luthien, and Eriador, on such a collision course against such an enemy as this.
CHAPTER 5
INCH BY INCH
IT IS NOT SO DEEP,” Shuglin grumbled, the end of his blue beard slick with slime.
“I am not so tall,” Oliver retorted without hesitation.
The frustrated dwarf looked over to Luthien, who promptly hoisted the complaining halfling under one arm and struggled on through the ice and the muck.
“Oliver deBurrows, walking a sewer!” Oliver grumbled. “If I had known how low I would sink beside the likes of you . . .”
His complaint became a muffled groan as Luthien pitched suddenly to the side, slamming them both against the wall.
They came up apart, Oliver hopping to his feet and slapping at the muck on his blue pantaloons, crying “Ick! Ick! Ick!”
“We’re under the merchants,” Shuglin put in, his gravelly voice thick with sarcasm. “You probably should be quiet.”
Oliv
er cast a hopeless glance at Luthien, but he knew that his friend was more amused than sympathetic. And he knew, too, that his complaints were minor; in light of the importance of this day, even Oliver could not take them seriously. Only a week after the opening of the mines, the rescued dwarfs had shown their value, repairing old weapons and armor, fashioning new equipment, and opening up the sewers under the embattled merchant quarter. Now Luthien and Oliver, Shuglin and three hundred of his bearded kin, were creeping along several parallel routes and would come up right in the midst of their enemies.
Still, the halfling figured that he didn’t have to enjoy the journey. The lanterns lit the tunnels well enough, but they did nothing to ward off the dead cold. Ice lined the sewer tunnels and was thick about the floor’s rounded center, but there was fresh waste above the ice and it would take more than a freeze to defeat the awful stench of the place.
“They had barricaded the openings,” Shuglin explained, “but we got through in more than a dozen and killed four cyclopians who were nearby in the process.”
“None escaped to warn of our approach?” Luthien asked for the tenth time since the expedition had set out from the city’s lower section.
“Not a one,” Shuglin assured him, also for the tenth time.
“I would so enjoy marching through this muck only to find the enemy waiting for us,” Oliver added sarcastically.
Shuglin ignored him and took up the march again, moving swiftly down the straight tunnel. A few moments later, the dwarf stopped and signaled for those following to do likewise.
“We are found,” the dismal halfling said.
Shuglin took the lantern from another dwarf and held it high in front of the mouth of the passage. He nodded as a like signal came from across the intersection, and he poked his stubby thumb upward. “All in time,” the dwarf remarked, motioning for the others to move along once more.
They came into a small cubby at the side of the passage. A ladder—of new dwarfish construction—was secured against one wall, leading up a dozen feet to a wooden trapdoor.
Luthien motioned to Oliver. It had been agreed that the stealthy halfling would lead them out of the sewer, and Oliver was happy to oblige, happy to be out of the muck even if the entire cyclopian force was waiting for him above. He sprang nimbly and silently to the ladder and started up.
Before he neared the top, the trapdoor creaked open. Oliver froze in place and those down below went perfectly silent.
“Oh, no,” the halfling moaned as a naked pair of cyclopian buttocks shifted over the hole. Oliver buried his face in his arms, hoping his wide-brimmed hat would protect him. “Oh, please shoot him fast,” he whispered, not thrilled with the possibilities.
He breathed easier when Luthien’s bow twanged and he felt the rush of air as an arrow whipped past. He looked up to see the bolt bury itself deep in the unwitting cyclopian’s fleshy bottom. The brute howled and spun, and took a dwarfish crossbow quarrel right in the face as it foolishly leaned over the opening. The screaming went away and the friends heard the cyclopian fall dead on the floor of the small room above.
Oliver adjusted his hat and looked to the upturned faces below. “Hey,” he called out softly, “the one-eyes, they look the same from both ends!”
“Just go on!” Luthien scolded.
Oliver shrugged and scampered up the ladder, coming into a small, square room, where the smell was nearly as bad as down below. Some brute was knocking on the door.
“Bergus?” it called.
Oliver turned back, putting his face over the opening, lifting his finger over pursed lips and motioning for the others to clear out of the way. Then he padded silently to the door. It rattled as the brute outside jostled it, for only a small hook held it closed.
“Bergus?” the brute growled again, and Oliver could tell that it was fast growing impatient.
The door shook as the cyclopian hit it harder, perhaps with his shoulder. Oliver looked to the dead cyclopian and considered the angle.
“You all right?” came a call, and the door shook again. Oliver slipped to the side of it and drew out his rapier.
Three loud knocks.
“Bergus?”
“Help me,” Oliver grunted softly, trying to imitate the low tones of a cyclopian and to sound as though he was in trouble. As soon as he spoke the words, he brought his rapier flicking up, unhooking the latch. An instant later the cyclopian hit the door shoulder first, barreling through, and Oliver stung the inside of its knee with his rapier point, then kicked the brute’s back foot in behind its leading one.
The overbalanced cyclopian pitched right over its fallen companion. Oliver was quick in the chase, guiding its flight so that it nearly tumbled right into the hole. A strong arm lashed out to the side, though, and the brute was able to hold itself up, with only its head and shoulders and one arm going over the lip.
Oliver jumped back and moved to strike, but he heard a twang from below and the cyclopian jerked violently, then went still. The halfling rushed back to the door and closed it once more, checking to ensure that no one else was around. Then he went to the cyclopian and heaved the creature into the hole.
“Good shot,” he said to Luthien when he saw the man step over the body to get to the ladder. “But do you know which end of the thing you hit?”
Luthien didn’t even look up. He didn’t want to encourage Oliver, didn’t want the halfling to see his amused smile.
All across the quiet upper section of the city, the invaders filtered out of several such outhouses and other privies located inside merchant dwellings. The air was still cold and dark before the dawn, and they could hear fighting over at the wall, near the Ministry.
“Right on time,” Oliver said, for the diversion—an attack by forces from the lower section—was not unexpected.
Luthien nodded grimly. Right on time. Everything was going according to plan. He looked about, his eyes adjusting to the dim light, and he nodded, seeing lines of grim-faced dwarfs, who had lived for years as slaves under the tyranny of Greensparrow, filtering into nearly every shadow.
The young Bedwyr started off, Oliver in tow, heading in the general direction of the fighting. They quick-stepped along the shadows of one lane, coming to an abrupt stop at a corner when they heard footsteps fast approaching from the other way.
A cyclopian skidded around the bend, its one eye going wide with surprise.
“This is too easy,” the halfling complained, and stuck his rapier into the monster’s chest. A second later, Blind-Striker split the brute’s skull down the middle.
Luthien started to answer, but both he and Oliver jumped and spun as a fight exploded behind them. A group of cyclopians had rushed out of a side avenue, also heading for the fight, but they found battle sooner than expected as two bands of dwarfs, Shuglin among them, caught them in a squeeze, overwhelming them in the street.
Skirmishes erupted all across the merchant section, and the fighting increased when the sun broke the horizon, sending slanting rays into the turmoil of war. Luthien and Oliver encountered only minimal resistance—two cyclopians, which they quickly defeated—on their way to the wall near the Ministry, where they would link with their allies, but found that a number of dwarfs had beaten them to the spot. Already the cyclopians holding the position were hard-pressed.
“Keep alert!” Luthien ordered the halfling. The young man took out his folded bow, opened and pinned it in a single movement and had an arrow ready to fly. While Oliver guarded his back and flanks, he picked his shots, one by one.
Grappling hooks came sailing over the wall, and with the dwarfs engaging the defenders on this side, others roaming the streets to cut off any reinforcements, the cyclopians could not resist. Elves and men streamed up and over the wall, joining the fighting throng.
Luthien tried to put an arrow up quickly, seeing one man slip down and a cyclopian moving in, sword high for the kill.
“Damn!” the young Bedwyr shouted, knowing he could not make the shot in tim
e.
The cyclopian halted suddenly. Luthien didn’t understand why, but didn’t question the luck as he finally got his arrow sighted.
The brute fell headlong before he could let fly, two arrows protruding from its back. Following their line, back along the wall, Luthien spotted a familiar figure, beautiful and lithe, with the angular features of a half-elf.
“Siobhan,” Oliver said behind him, the halfling obviously pleased and inspired by the fine figure she cut, standing tall atop the wall in the shining morning light.
Before Luthien remembered that he had a bow of his own, the half-elf held hers up again and fired, and another cyclopian fell away.
“Are you going to watch or play?” Oliver cried, running by the young man. Luthien looked back to the main fight, which was on in full now, at the wall and in the courtyard beside the towering Ministry. He slung his bow over his shoulder and drew out Blind-Striker, running to catch up with his friend.
Both spotted Katerin, leaping down off the wall into the middle of the fray, right in between two cyclopians.
Oliver groaned, but Luthien knew the sturdy woman of Hale better than to be afraid for her.
Back and forth she worked her spear, parrying and slapping at the surprised brutes. She thrust forward viciously, driving the spear tip into one’s belly, then tore it free and shifted her angle as she reversed direction, the spear’s butt end slamming the other cyclopian in the face. Katerin twirled the weapon in her hands and jabbed the tip the other way, slicing the brute’s throat, then rotated it again and came back furiously, finishing the one that was holding its spilling guts.
Luthien, obviously pleased, looked at Oliver. “Two to two,” he remarked.
“Say that five times fast,” the halfling replied.
Before Luthien could begin to respond, Oliver poked his finger back toward the wall, and Luthien turned just as Siobhan felled another brute from the wall with her deadly bow.
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